


A Story About You

by icyowl97



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood, Desert Bluffs, Episode: e013 A Story About You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:26:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icyowl97/pseuds/icyowl97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is a fanfiction about you," said the summary for the story. And you were pleased, because you always wanted to read about yourself in a fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story About You

"This is a story about you," said the voice, and you were terrified. You always hated people talking about you.

Welcome to Desert Bluffs.

Do you know where you are right now? Of course not. You just woke up. You're disoriented. Please, take a moment.

Now close your eyes and look around the room. Do you know now? You need to concentrate.

"I'm trying," you say aloud to the radio, but the voice just repeats it back to you in that high pitch voiced, sweeter than melted sugar. It's driving you mad.

Well it's your own fault, and you know that. You shouldn't have taken those boxes, ticking or not ticking. And then you didn't even look inside.

It feels so weird to feel again, doesn't it? Like standing up and discovering sensation in a leg that's fallen asleep. It's not all the way there, and while it doesn't hurt, this new sensation of feeling is uncomfortable.

You lean against the wall, the chains around your ankles clinking together in a pleasant, almost musical way. You like that, so you shake your ankles more. It takes your mind away from more... unpleasant things. 

But you can't stop thinking about it, about all of it. The dark planet. The ticking box. Your fiance's face. It's all coming back in waves now, each one heavier than the last, and it hurts to feel this again. You wish it would stop.

"Shut up," you say silently to the empty room. You aren't sure why you're speaking quietly. You know who you're talking to, and you know, somehow, that they can hear you. They're telling you so right now, in that bright, cheerful voice that is just choking you with its sweetness. Why are you talking quietly? It doesn't make any sense.

"Shut up!" you yell, and that feels better. It feels good to let loose all that anger, all those feelings. The radio host doesn't stop, of course, but you still feel better, and when you rest your head against the wall, it's with a smile this time.

You wonder why you're here. You wonder why you're alive. You know this place, from your nightmares. Your nightmares of blood, of human teeth littered on the floor, turned into cuff links, turned into art. 

The blood. How on earth had you forgotten the blood? The smell hits you like a train engine. You start to retch. You don't have anything in your stomach right now, but it still hurts your throat. But you don't stop. How can you?

You are sitting in blood. You are covered in blood. The floor is covered in 3 inches of blood, and the blood is warm. The blood is... fresh.

You do manage to vomit this time, clear bile mingling with the blood. Is this hell? Is this your torture for what you've done? You have to endure this, while that sick, sweet voice narrates your every move. Your every thought. Your existence.

You wonder, briefly, if you will cease to exist if the voice says so. If the voice stops talking. "What if the voice gets tired?" you think. "What if his throat gets sore?"

Those are good questions. But I don't have any answers. I don't give answers. I give the news.

The door opens, and someone steps in. You peer at them, wondering who they are. But you don't know them. How could you know them? You forget their face every time you look away.

You know he is in a tan jacket... right? With a deer skin briefcase? You look again.

He steps to you, and pulls out a key. He unlocks the manacles around your ankle, never setting the deerskin briefcase down. When the manacles slip off, they drop into the blood, making a splash. But the splash doesn't get any blood on him... right?

He turns away before you can even try to look at his face, and he pulls you out the door. You think he said something, but it's hard to know for sure. It's hard to know anything anymore. 

The voice over the radio still won't stop, no matter how many hallways you walk down. It's like it's following you. Hovering over your shoulder. Whispering in your ear. You shudder. 

Finally you arrive a door, and push it open just in time to hear the voice say something about the weather.

\--

The man in the tan jacket is trying to tell you something. At least, you think he is. It's a bit hard to tell.

You can't remember anything he says, and the blood dripping off your clothes is taking more of your attention. You apologize anyways. Or at least, you think you did. You don't remember.

You're out in the sand wastes now. Miles away from that wretched, blood-soaked room. But the voice is still there. So that means the story isn't over.

Which means you aren't over. And in this moment, right here out on the sand dunes, you aren't sure if it's a good thing or not.

You hear the choppers before you see them. And the voice tells you that you hear just before you hear them. 

They're a lot closer than they should be. The sun reflecting off them is so bright that you can't even look at them.

You feel a tug at your sleeve. Oh, there's someone there with you! You look, and it's a man in a tan jacket. 

He gestures towards the truck, and you nod. You think he's telling you to drive away. And you will. In a few minutes.

Something is rooting you here. You know that something is about to happen. Something important. You know this just as much as you know that you will die. 

And so you stand there, waiting for whatever comes next to happen, confident that whatever it is, it will matter. It will change the world, and rock it to its core. You are sure of this, and you frown. Not because you are sad, but because you do not smile. 

You turn to face the choppers once more, and then....

This has been your story.

The radio moves onto other things — news, traffic, political opinions, and corrections to political opinions. But there was time, one day, one single day, in which it was only one story.

A story about you.

And you were terrified, because you always hated people talking about you.


End file.
